“Why don’t you get an exhibition too, Jones?”
The question astounded me. I get an exhibition! I who had been licked once a week for bad copies, and had been told by every teacher I had had anything to do with that I was a hopeless dunce.
“Why not?” said the siren at my side. “You’re not a dunce. I can tell that by the way you picked up some of the Caesar just now. You’re lazy, that’s all. That’s easily cured.”
“But I’d have no chance at Low Heath. Tempest was a dab at lessons.”
“He’s older than you. Besides, the junior exhibitions are not as hard to get. When will you be fourteen?”
“July next year.”
“Just twelve months. Why not try, Jones? I’ll back you up. I’ve coached my young brother, and he got into Rugby. You needn’t tell any one—so if you miss nobody will be any the wiser. It will make all the difference to have an exam, to aim at.”
I stared in wonder at Miss Steele. That young woman could have twisted me round her finger.
“I’ll try,” said I.
“Not unless you mean to work like a horse,” said she.